


Myths and Fairytales

by FlitShadowflame



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, abduction seduction kind of, monstercock, noncon to dubcon to fullcon, quasi-bestiality, xenocock, xenosex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlitShadowflame/pseuds/FlitShadowflame
Summary: My fic for the Adoribull Minibang 2017: Dorian's father goes several steps too far in his attempts to rein in his willful heir.  Dorian spends the next handful of years trying to make up for Halward's mistakes, but eventually discovers that family isn't always what you're born with.Illustrated by the wonderful Hobovampire :)





	Myths and Fairytales

Dorian wakes up in a strange room with high windows and no door. He doesn’t remember dressing in this ridiculously ugly nightgown. He doesn’t remember much at all of consequence. Why is he here?

The note at his bedside raises more questions than it answers. His father relocated him from the family dungeons to this...tower, with no real explanation aside from “You’ll be safe there,” and “So will the family reputation.”

As if Dorian is an inconvenience, but not one Halward has the stomach to kill. He wonders if his parents will touch one another long enough to breed another heir.

He wonders why he’s crying over people who have discarded him.

The tower does have a door, he finds when he’s done wallowing in self-pity. A trapdoor, to be precise, with a rope ladder bundled underneath. The ladder falls at least three stories before it brushes the ground. Why? Why not normal stairs?

The base of the tower is even more barren than the room he woke in. A bathing tub, with the usual runes and dwarven plumbing - at least he will be clean. A drain. A water closet. Most importantly, a larder.

“And not a book in sight,” Dorian observes miserably.

In two sleepless nights, he learns a little more about his most recent prison. An elderly elf - deaf, at least to any of Dorian’s commands - cleans the downstairs and stocks the larder. A slave, undoubtedly. When he catches Dorian watching, he says tonelessly, “Drop soiled linens down every week and I bring fresh. No drop, no clean linens.”

Then he leaves, and locks the door behind him. It’s a magical lock, and it will not open no matter what spells Dorian tries.

The windows are little more than arrow slits. The only way in or out is the door. Dorian gets to work on destroying the wards in his copious free time. It still takes months, without his books or staff or foci.

Once the door is open, he finds out that his father has not stopped at magical towers to keep Dorian in place. A hedge maze, likely filled with deadly things, surrounds the building - and at the only entrance Dorian can see, it’s guarded by a massive minotaur. It turns a scarred, one-eyed face to him and he forgets how to scream, just jumps back inside and slams the door shut.

Heavy fists pound it open before Dorian can get more than two feet up the ladder, and a huge hand closes around his ankle and yanks him off with ease. “You Dorian?” it - he - asks in a gravelly voice.

“I - yes.” Minotaur, he keeps thinking. That’s a bloody minotaur. I thought they were myths.

The minotaur inhales deeply, pressing his nose into Dorian’s neck. “The wizard said if Dorian showed his face, I was allowed to fuck him. Not allowed to fuck the elf, though.”

Dorian’s eyes widen, then narrow in anger. “I beg your pardon,” he says, voice steely, “but you will be doing no such thing.”

“The wizard promised,” the minotaur said, grinding down on Dorian’s leg, showing off a massive erection. “And it’s been nearly a year since I tasted a boy’s tears while I fucked him. Little thing. Doubt he lived.”

A year ago, Dorian had still been on the family estate. Had only just been captured from Rilienus’ home. Surely his father hadn’t procured and imprisoned a mythical rapist to be his guard. Surely not.

“You, though,” the beast continued. “You’d calf well. Maybe even more than once.”

Dorian goes white from fury-fear, and Mind Blasts the thing off him. He scrambles for the ladder, but the minotaur climbs after him, forces his broad hornspan through the wooden floor when he doesn’t fit in the trapdoor. Dorian readies fire and lightning, but the beast shrugs them off, scoops Dorian up and pins him to the bed with a single, powerful arm.

“If you’re a good boy I’ll fuck your thighs first, to take the edge off,” the minotaur tells him sweetly. “Will you be a good boy, Dorian?”

Anything to buy more time to think. Dorian nods.

“Say it,” the beast snarls.

“I’ll b-be a good boy,” Dorian parrots, scared stiff. Brawny arms position and secure him.

“I hope you can make grease, little wizard.”

Wordlessly, Dorian performs the spell. The minotaur slicks Dorian’s thighs from knees to bollocks and presses them closed. He hums as he pushes his cock in. “Very good boy,” he praises Dorian, who flushes at the words.

“D-do you have a name?” Dorian asks, not sure why he cares. But it feels like it matters.

“Once I was Ashkaari-imekari. Then Tallis, then Hissrad. The wizard called me ‘the bull,’ when he made me this.”

“You’re...Qunari?” Dorian gasps. The Bull starts fucking his thighs rather than answer. “My father - how many lives did it take?” Because a transformation so extreme had to be blood magic.

“Seven,” the Bull grunts, nuzzling Dorian’s ear. “My unit from Seheron. It’s strange...I thought I would miss them more, but all I feel is the Hunger.”

“Maker have mercy,” Dorian shudders.

“No Maker but the wizard.” The Bull pushes Dorian onto his belly. “But you can pray to me, little wizard.”

“Mercy, please, let me - just let me do one thing first,” Dorian begs, greasing his hand again.

“Work fast,” the Bull snarls.

Dorian does. He works so fast he worries he’ll tear, but if he doesn’t finish in time he’ll tear for sure.

“That’s enough,” the Bull says impatiently, pulling Dorian’s arm away. “You’re mine, Dorian. The wizard promised you to me, my mare, my bride.”

The Bull enters him and it’s beyond painful. It burns. It’s so big, too big, obviously not designed for a human to take with any degree of comfort. Dorian is sure if it goes any deeper he’ll feel it in his throat. Then it goes deeper.

He babbles and swears nonsensically, driven wild with pain. The Bull presses down on him and croons softly.

Despite - or maybe because of - his size, the Bull moves slowly, almost gently. His hands pet and soothe. His mouth leaves kisses and little lovebites in its wake.

Dorian has never felt like this before, never been treated like this before. Even Rilienus was a hurried affair, affectionate at times but not like this, this parody of a lover’s touch.

It hurts more than physically. Had he not deserved consideration from his many trysts? Is he supposed to believe the monster less monstrous than the humans? Why had no one else been gentle with Dorian? Is there something wrong with him?

His palms bleed from where his nails have dug in too hard. It would be so easy to use the blood, thrall the beast, leave this place. Wouldn’t it? But where would it end? With his father’s head on a pike? Dorian doesn’t think he wants that. He isn’t as sure of it as he was, though.

He releases his agony in tears, not magic. It doesn’t satisfy, but the Bull seems pleased as he licks away the wetness on Dorian’s cheeks.

“The Hunger quiets,” the Bull says softly, stroking Dorian’s skin. “I will call for you when it rises again.” He leaves Dorian like that, sprawled out naked and bleeding and crying, and he descends the ladder.

Dorian doesn’t - can’t - move for nearly a day. When he does get up, he half-falls down the ladder, bars the door, and takes a bath.

The door opens easily for the elf when Dorian is washing his back. Dorian knows him by the too-loud sniggering.

“Met our friend the Bull, I see. Now will you stop trying to leave?” The question is rhetorical, of course.

Dorian does remain docile for a few days. He flinches when the Bull calls out to him, but doesn’t touch the trapdoor. He still hasn’t fully recovered from the first time, surely the Bull doesn’t expect - but he does. He’s insatiable by manufactured nature. Dorian pities him as much as he fears him, to be honest.

He manages to last three days before the Bull catches him in the bath. It’s a little easier this time, less painful, and the Bull brings him part of an elfroot plant as some kind of token or offering.

Though he’s uncertain of Bull’s motives, he still uses the plant.

“Don’t make me wait,” the Bull tells him warningly. But Dorian is too afraid to come when Bull calls; he must be captured first.

The next time, it takes five days. The Bull is in a much worse state, more savage, less genteel. Dorian cries again. “Hush, little wizard. My bride should be stronger than this.” He pulls Dorian’s hair, and the boy yelps. “Such a fussy little thing.”

Dorian looks blearily into the scarred face and finds himself stammering apologies.

The Bull chuckles. One broad hand envelops Dorian’s sex, milks his cock until he can’t choke back the little whimpers of pleasure anymore. “There, my little wizard. Isn’t it better when you’re good for the Bull?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Dorian says haltingly.

The Bull fucks him twice, that time. Dorian can scarcely believe he’s still whole, afterward.

Only two days pass before Bull traps him in the larder. Dorian decides to try something new, break the pattern if he can - and give his arse a break.

“Would you like my mouth, sir?” he asks, licking his lips to draw attention to one of his best features.

The Bull pauses, intrigued. “You want to choke on my cock so badly, little slut?”

“Please...let me show you how good I can be.”

“If you think you can handle it,” the Bull says dubiously.

Dorian sinks to his knees with a slow breath of apprehension. The Bull is naked, as always, his inhuman cock standing proud and erect. Dorian presses a kiss to the flared tip and Bull grunts. He tongues the slit, wraps his mouth around the crown - it barely fits. He uses both hands on the rest of the shaft, exploring the slick ridges of veins, the raised ring-like knot in the middle. He is certain now that Bull has barely fucked him with half his cock. From the base to the knot, Bull is thicker, his skin rougher but still slick with some manner of natural lubricant.

Reaching further, he cups Bull’s sack in one hand - or tries to. It’s too big to fit, truly, but his balls are furry, and that intrigues Dorian. The fur there is almost velvet-soft, not like the coarse black stuff covering the rest of Bull’s hairy half. After a few moments spent stroking the Bull off and massaging his balls, Dorian hesitantly moves one hand to pet the minotaur’s thigh.

The Bull growls, seizing the mage by the hair, so Dorian swallows him as deeply as he can, nearly to the medial ring, and suckles clumsily around the huge mouthful. The Bull relaxes his grip on Dorian’s hair.

“Very good boy,” the Bull murmurs. “Now I’m going to feed you the rest.”

Dorian’s nostrils flare and he tries to pull back, but Bull’s hand is on his scalp now, holding him effortlessly in place. He swallows frantically as Bull plunges deeper, fucks his throat with his enormous cock. Bull hums in pleasure. “This is almost as good as your cunt, sweetling. I could get used to it.”

Dorian tries and fails to breathe through his nose. Bull is too big, is blocking off his airway entirely.

Only when the knot begins to swell does Bull pull back reluctantly. “If I only have one boy to fuck I’ll have to keep him alive,” he says with a measure of regret. “Even if you do look good in purple.”

“I look good in everything,” Dorian rasps.

“Yes~,” the Bull grins. “The wizard gave me an excellent bride.”

“I - oh, whatever.” No point in explaining to a Qunari-minotaur that to have a bride required marriage, and to a female.

“Now I’m going to fuck you again,” Bull smiles. “I’ll let you try and escape first, if you like. It seems more...sporting, if I have to catch you.”

Dorian considers it, but he knows now that the Bull is faster, stronger, and resistant to magic.

“I’ll b-be good,” he says instead, meekly taking to all fours. The Bull inhales his scent with a pleased noise.

“Such a sweet bride. Spread your legs, up on your toes - spread them wide. There’s a good boy.” Dorian flushes at the vulnerability of the pose. “I’m going to fuck you just like this,” the Bull promises.

And he does, holding Dorian’s hips in place as he slams in over and over. “This sweet little cunt is mine, boy. Don’t forget that.”

“I w-won’t!”

“And you’ll come when called?”

“I - I n-need to recover, please, s-sir - ”

“You will come when called,” the Bull growls forcefully.

“Y-yes sir!”

“Better.” The Bull thrusts in, and this time Dorian knows the medial knot is what’s pressing on his rim, not the base of Bull’s cock. He moans, emboldened by this evidence that Bull will not seriously harm him. “Much better,” the Bull adds, pleased. “I was wondering what happened to the shameless slut I was promised.”

Dorian sputters indignantly.

“Are you not? The wizard said his shameless little slut of a son needed a lesson. Needed a guard, someone to take care of him. I’ll take care of my little slut forever.”

The word “forever” both chilled and excited Dorian. Most men couldn’t be bothered to “take care” of him for an entire hour. Forever was impossible to imagine.

Forever as a minotaur’s fucktoy, and it shouldn’t be as enticing as it is. But Dorian’s a slut, after all. And if he really didn’t want the Bull, why offer to suck him off? Why had he been lingering in the larder when he knew the Bull could force his way in at any time, now that Dorian had broken the spell on the door?

But part of him still resists. He doesn’t snap to the Bull’s heels when he’s summoned; he makes Bull wait. Only an hour or so, these days, but a wait nonetheless.

Then he’s not fast enough down the ladder, and the Bull invades his room again, fucks him roughly against the wall and sweetly on the bed. The contrast is stark: Bull starts the former with only his natural slick as added lube for his massive cock. The latter begins with his tongue, methodically licking Dorian’s hole until it’s empty and clean and aching to be filled again.

“Bull,” he begs, clutching at the bedsheets. “Bull - please - ” he wants more this time, more than the half of Bull he’s used to getting.

Bull seems to sense it. “One of these days, when you’re begging me so sweetly, I’m going to mount you properly, fill you with more cock than you’ve ever dreamed of having inside you. Then I’ll give you more, until you can feel my sack against yours. You’ll take the pounding of a lifetime and spend and spend on my cock until you’re coming dry. And once my seed takes, you’ll calf so beautifully for me, won’t you precious?”

“I - an-anything you want,” Dorian says desperately. He needs Bull’s cock. “Anything, just, please - ”

“What is it, sweetling?” And Dorian knows the Bull is teasing because he always is when he breaks out the diminutive pet names.

“Just - fuck me, kaffas, please.”

“You want my cock, little slut? How much of it?”

“As much as I can take, please, Bull...I need it.”

“Let’s see if you can take my knot after all.”

Dorian freezes.

“Don’t worry, little bride. There’s plenty of time for you to become my broodmare. That needn’t be today.”

He slides in, with the help of Dorian’s oft-abused grease spell. In comparison to their first time, everything is easy. It still burns uncomfortably, it still goes deep, deep, deeper, but Dorian is almost certain that he’s not bleeding. Bull pins him to the bed, furry legs sprawling awkwardly. The Bull is lowering himself down, deep into Dorian, using only his arms for support. It’s as overt a display of strength as any Dorian has seen, but such things don’t usually have him moaning wantonly into his pillow, rutting against the mattress.

“Shh, little slut, the Bull is here for you.”

Dorian realizes vaguely that he’s crying again, not exactly from pain this time. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, just that it’s not bad - or normal.

Bull kisses Dorian’s damp face and then licks the tears away. “Can you feel my knot, sweetling?”

“Y-yes…” It stretches his hole ever-so-slightly, even withdrawn and uninflated.

“You want it inside you, don’t you, little slut.” It’s not even a question.

“Andraste help me but yes, I do,” Dorian sighs.

“Told you already, slut: you pray to me now.” It’s not, Dorian is relatively sure, that the Bull truly believes himself a god. Perhaps he simply doesn’t believe in gods at all, or maybe he just wants all Dorian’s attention, his awe and reverence, to be kept jealously, only for the Bull to see.

When Bull drives home another inch of his cock, Dorian squeals at the sudden, sharp spike of pain as his aching hole is pushed too far. But the Bull cossets and soothes him, petting and kissing, and the pain fades. Euphoria fills him instead, as the knot (hot and throbbing with Bull’s need) presses against his prostate. It feels incredible. He’s so full he could burst. Then Bull decides to keep his promise - rocking his hips sharply, fucking Dorian with his knot, and dragging orgasm after orgasm from the helpless mage as he pounds into him.

“Mine,” he snarls, now and again, and Dorian is always quick to reassure him with:

“Yours.”

“You’ll look so good heavy with calf,” Bull moans, spilling more seed into Dorian. “Fat with my son, and I’ll still fuck you just like this, like I’m trying to get you pregnant again.”

Dorian sobs out another dry release.

It’s later, when the Bull is cradling his exhausted form, that he asks, “Why did you say ‘son’?”

Bull shrugs. “A man and a woman mate, equal chance of boy or girl, yes?” Dorian nods. “Two men, only make men. Sons. No woman, no chance for one.”

“Two men can’t have children at all,” Dorian huffs.

“Two human men can’t. But who’s to say what a minotaur can or can’t do?”

Dorian pales, touching his flat stomach.

The Bull raises an eyebrow. “There are herbs you can take if you’re that worried.”

But Dorian is practically hyperventilating for a different reason: Halward. How much of this had his father planned? What else could he have calculated? He must have known Dorian would eventually yield to the Bull, willing or not - he said as much to Bull, apparently. Was the whole thing an elaborate ruse to get an heir - through any means necessary?

“Get out,” he says, voice cracking with emotion.

The Bull cocks his head. “What is it?”

“Get. Out. Go away. Fuck off.”

The Bull grabs his arm and he wrenches away, falls to the ground, hating himself for starting to cry. “He sent you here to get him his precious heir, didn’t he? Probably told everyone I eloped with a Laetan or some bollocks so he can bring me - it - back in the fold when there’s a human-enough spawn. Vishante kaffas, I should have seen it earlier.”

“Dorian, calm down,” the Bull says. “The wizard didn’t send me to father an heir. He didn’t say anything about calves.”

“Why would he? You’re just a tool to him. You don’t tell your hammer what the nail is for.” Dorian shakes his head. “I can’t _think._ Just go.”

“I’m not leaving until you calm down,” Bull says stubbornly. “You know children are extremely unlikely, right? You don’t have the right parts, Dorian.”

“I have no idea what my father’s done to me. There was blood - I don’t know what he was trying, but it didn’t seem to work.” Dorian buries his face in his hands. “What if he did something after all?” He remembers the ritual through the drugged haze Halward had put him in, but only barely. He remembers he was still locked in the cell when his senses returned, and shortly after that he was sent here.

“Then we’ll handle it, together. But I won’t let him take you from me, and I certainly won’t let him have anybody’s baby, let alone ours.”

Dorian takes deep, heavy breaths. “Okay. Okay. We’ll take care of it. Yes.” He leans into the Bull. “We’ll take care of it.”

Bull doesn’t take advantage of their closeness to initiate sex, for once. Perhaps because they’ve fucked twice already, perhaps because Dorian took his knot for the first time, but Dorian can’t be sure.

With some experimentation, they discover that Bull only “needs” Dorian once a day, and is “satisfied” with twice a day. The rest of the time, for want of any other option or better company, they talk.

They talk about Bull’s somewhat blurred memories of the time before he was transformed. They talk about Dorian’s childhood, or his escapades at the various Circles he’d attended. They talk about escaping - well, Dorian does. Bull grunts about it and eventually (he feels so stupid about how long it takes) Dorian realizes Bull is under a compulsion spell.

It’s hard to determine why - Bull is able to indicate he has no more knowledge of the maze than Dorian does, so preventing him from speaking about it would do little good. But all the signs of a geas are there. It only takes a few days to break, once Dorian is paying attention. Only when he sees how relaxed the Bull is now does he realize how tense the Bull had been before. The geas must have weighed heavily on him.

“I woke up here,” he shrugs when he’s able to speak of it. “And never really wanted to explore.” He frowns. “That was probably the spell, come to think of it.”

They venture into the maze only to discover a magical, shifting thing filled with giant spiders. It works to keep them from progressing beyond the first few corridors. A confusion spell, probably, but Dorian can’t do anything about that without finding the anchor.

Unless, he realizes, he finds out how the elf gets in and out every night.

It must be some sort of magical item protecting him - keyed to wards, maybe - but there’s only one way to know for certain, and Dorian shouldn’t relish the thought as much as he does.

They have to catch the elf. It isn’t difficult, in the end: Dorian only needs to use a few spells. The fact remains that he’d never even thought of it until the maze stymied him. Slaves are all but invisible in Tevinter, after all.

There’s no point in interrogating him. Dorian looks for anything out of place, searches his pockets, his hands and neck - nothing. No jewelry, no tokens.

“I thought elves weren’t into shoes,” the Bull mutters. He had played the part of the distraction.

Dorian looks at the elf’s feet. Boots. Not new, but well made. A slave can rarely expect more than sandals.

“It’s the shoes,” Dorian says aloud, before giving the Bull a greedy kiss. “You’re a genius.”

The boots don’t fit Dorian very well, but he doesn’t give a fuck. They’re his ticket out of here. He holds Bull’s hand as they navigate the maze. It takes scarcely an hour, even with the creatures Bull’s presence draws. A few dragonlings, entirely too many spiders, and a handful of other various animals. The boots must be warded against them as well - they skitter away from Dorian when approached. He kills them easily enough with well-placed fireballs, but his mana drains quickly without a staff to channel it. Bull just hits things with his fists like some sort of soporati brawler.

Which, Dorian reflects, he essentially is. “If we find you a weapon, can you use it?” he asks.

“Depends. Tiny daggers, no. But you get me something that can cleave a man in two, then I’ll be a little more helpful. Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“For the last time, it’s the confusion ward that makes you ask that question and yes, I’m sure. It can’t be much farther - aha!” They stumble onto a green field. There’s a very familiar orchard nearby.

“Shit,” Dorian says. “We’re in Asariel. I was so hoping it would be Qarinus.”

“How can you tell?”

“This is my family’s estate - the back of it, anyway. More or less.” He turns around. Now that they’re out from under the hedge’s shadow, he can see a little of the tower that had imprisoned him. The front of the hedge maze is covered in warning signs, including a frantically painted one that merely says “SPIDERS!!!”

“Let’s see if Daddy’s home, shall we?” Dorian smiles up at Bull. It is not a kind smile. Bull shrugs.

“If that’s what you want, Big Guy.”

“I want to know what he was doing to me,” Dorian says grimly. “And if Mother knew. She’s more likely to be here, anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Technically, it’s her estate - these have been Thalrassian lands for centuries. When she married my father, she kept her lands separate, making my father lord of a property he doesn’t own.”

“Didn’t that piss the wizard off?”

“Oh, it most assuredly did, which is exactly what she was hoping for. Theirs has never been what you’d call a happy marriage.”

“Isn’t the point of marriage to show your commitment to someone else above all others?”

“No, what are you - oh right, Qunari. Perhaps for the Soporati things are like that. There are love matches even in the Altus class,” he thinks briefly of Maevaris Tilani and her dwarf husband, “But without a social advantage they don’t usually make it very far. My parents wanted me to marry a girl named Livia Herathinous in order to further the Pavus monopoly on the apple trade. If anyone buys an apple in Tevinter or Antiva, it came from a Pavus or Herathinous orchard.”

The Bull’s ears twitch slightly. “We’ve got company,” he warns.

Dorian kicks off the elf’s boots to replace them with his own. He doesn’t have time to buckle them before his mother calls out to him. Well, to Bull.

“What the Void are you and why are you here?” she shouts, still twenty yards away.

“He was - is - Qunari, mother. More or less,” Dorian says stiffly. “As to why he’s here, perhaps you should ask father that question.”

Aquinea Thalrassian Pavus turns an only slightly less frosty look to her son. “He said he’d find you. He’s been all over Tevinter.”

“Mother, Father found me almost two years ago. Whatever he’s travelling for, it’s not for want of me.”

“What do you mean he found you?”

“I was - with someone,” he says delicately. “Guards came, slaughtered the whole household. I - I still don’t know if he let Rilienus live.”

“Rilienus?” Aquinea makes a face. “That Laetan? You really ought to do better for yourself, darling.”

Dorian carefully does not look at Bull.

“And what are you doing here, Qunari?”

“He turned me into a minotaur, ma’am,” Bull answers blithely. Aquinea sniffs.

“Apparently so. Honestly, I leave that man alone for - well, several months - and he turns to blood magic and kidnaps our son. He didn’t hurt you, did he darling?”

“No lasting damage,” Dorian says grudgingly. “I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

Aquinea shakes her head. “Halward you fool.” She didn’t even shift her feet to start casting, but Dorian got his shield up faster, even without a staff. Her spell bounced off harmlessly. “He should never have left you unsupervised,” she hisses.

Dorian sighs. “Well, Bull, I believe that answers my only remaining question.” He lashes out with a curse - and after a year’s practice with staffless magic, the spell is powerful but still well under control.

Aquinea didn’t fall so easily, however. She deflected most of the damage. “You were such a promising little boy, Dorian sweetheart.”

“Dorian, we need to get out of here,” Bull says urgently.

“Working on it,” Dorian snaps.

“I just don’t know where we went wrong,” Aquinea laments, over-dramatic as usual.

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” the Bull roars, slamming into Aquinea at full speed. Not expecting a physical attack, she goes flying into a tree, where she slumps to the ground, unconscious. “Let’s go,” he says, turning to Dorian.

The mage looks at him, wide-eyed. “I - yes - in the house, quickly, there’s something I need.”

“Like what?”

“My staff!” Dorian says, already running. Bull growls and takes off after him.

They end up fighting two groups of confused Laetan guards on the way in, and another one on the way out. The bag Dorian has Bull carry feels like - and might be - a sack full of gold. They make for the stables. A massive draft horse is capable of carrying Bull, though he requires three attempts to mount it with his bovine hindquarters. Dorian takes his usual mount, a swift chestnut mare.

Once they leave Asariel’s gates, they make good time, heading due south. Qarinus would have been a more convenient port - less magisters about who might recognize Dorian - but Asariel has its own advantages. Miles of fertile, underpopulated farmland to the south, with few bandits and even fewer Imperial troops, for example.

They spend two days sleeping rough, rubbing off against each other when the Bull’s urges make him cranky. Finally they come across a small town that Dorian feels safe enough to venture into, once he’s shaved off his iconic mustache and all his long, lovely hair. He looks like Felix, if Felix were prettier, which is small consolation. He keeps trying to stroke a mustache he doesn’t have.

His mother is vain enough to think her son similarly self-centered, and so all the wanted posters Dorian sees are of his old self, looking nothing like the clean-shaven youth he appears now.

With food and some bedrolls, the next week of travel goes easier. Dorian even has the energy to properly service the Bull, who has been getting very testy.

“Why didn’t you just leave me behind?” Bull asks once, when he’s through whining about his needs.

“You saved my life,” Dorian says simply. “You helped me escape from that prison. And you haven’t once asked me if I deserved to be there.”

“I’ve hurt you, though. Repeatedly.”

“Your current bestial nature is my father’s fault, not yours. I’ve suffered worse bedsport at the hands of less likable men and survived.”

Bull sighs. “That just makes me feel worse.”

“What do you want me to do? Push you away so you’re someone else’s problem? My father did...this, but I can undo it, maybe without killing anyone, even. I’ve always been an excellent cursebreaker.” It went unsaid that Bull would likely rape indiscriminately without Dorian’s constant servicing.

“You - you really think you can do that?”

“I can certainly try. Even as a minotaur you’re one of the best men I’ve ever known. It would be beyond selfishness to do nothing.”

Bull says nothing for a long moment. “You’re a good man, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian flushes.

“Now come here and sit on my cock before I explode,” he adds, only half-teasing.

Dorian goes willingly, even eagerly. He’s grown accustomed to getting a deep coring every day, but they’ve made do with frottage and handjobs for the majority of their time on the run so far.

It’s not the same.

Taking Bull’s knot is still difficult, even after all the practice, but that’s partially why Dorian loves doing it so often. The Bull gets so appreciative.

“You have the sweetest little cunt,” he sighs into Dorian’s ear. “So tight.”

“Not so very little anymore,” Dorian laughs. “You should know you’ve wrecked me for anyone smaller than a horse.”

“I’d better try harder, then. I mean to wreck you for anyone but me, my bride.”

Dorian shivers. Bull’s knot thrusts in and out of his hole, stretching him wide. “Y-yours, yes, yes, please Bull - “

“Anything you want.”

“Fuck me, knot me, fill me with your come until I can’t move.” Healing magic might be the only way he can ride in the morning, but he doesn’t care.

“Anything for you,” Bull promises feverishly. His knot starts to fill Dorian even more, until he can scarcely breathe. All the while, Bull floods him with hot come.

+

Though they’ve escaped Asariel and eluded Dorian’s family, their safety is far from guaranteed. This is made clear when bandits attack their little camp not far from the Nevarran border.

A nightmare is what saves them from death or capture: Dorian wakes from a demon-infested dream and comes up casting, catching the first assailant completely off-guard. Bull stumbles to his hooves with a roar. Then the battle truly begins: four men pile on Bull and the group’s mage engages Dorian.

The poor fool is no match for him, of course, just as a measly gang of four has no hope against the Bull. But the warriors land a few heavy blows and one rogue manages a deep cut on the inside of Bull’s furry thigh.

“I’m fine,” Bull says later, as if he wasn’t bleeding from four places that Dorian could easily spot.

“You’re not,” Dorian fusses worriedly. He’s rubbish at healing more than a light scrape or a bruise, maybe a sore muscle - especially when the wound is on someone else. These are deep lacerations. He binds them with strips of fabric from the dead men’s clothes, for want of a cleaner option. He douses them in wine first.

“There’s a village not far from here. They might have a healer or a midwife who can do a better job of patching you up,” Dorian thinks aloud.

“I’ll be fine. Just need to rest.” And Bull did sound tired, but not from exertion.

“That would be the blood loss talking,” Dorian snaps. “Try not to move around much, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

It goes unsaid that he’ll have to lie to get anyone out here. Bandit territory, almost an hour from the village by horse - Dorian will be lucky if anyone is fool enough to accompany him.

He stops at the tavern, though it isn’t even midday yet. “Is there a healer in this town?” he asks the publican neutrally.

The man ignores him.

Dorian sighs, but flashes some coin. “Two silver if you can point me to a healer.” It’s a little high, but only a little.

Once the coin is in hand, the man seems far more inclined to talk. “Got an old midwife down the road a ways, delivers babies well enough, has a touch of fire magic to cleanse and seal wounds. Then there’s that merc company that stopped in yesterday. Had a fellow they called ‘Stitches’ what turned my common room into a surgery. Did neat work with a needle, gave the fellow a poultice and he was well enough to trounce his mates at Wicked Grace.”

If cauterization were all Bull needed, Dorian could have provided it himself. “Where can I find this ‘Stitches’?” he asks.

“Around town, I shouldn’t wonder. You can’t miss ‘im, he’s dark as a Rivaini.”

As if the Rivaini came in only one color - but it was true that most of them were quite dark-skinned.

Dorian finds Stitches easily enough. Then he has to do the real work of convincing him.

“I heard you’re some sort of medic,” he starts. “I - my friend needs your help.”

Stitches tilts his head. “What kind of help?”

“Cuts, mostly, but I think one hit a muscle and another may have nicked an artery. I bandaged him, but I’m rubbish at healing magic. Rubbish at bandaging, too,” he admits ruefully. “He’s an hour’s ride out. He’ll probably live without your help, but I don’t want to risk it, and I think he’d rather not spend the rest of his life lamed because he was too proud to ask a professional.”

“An hour’s ride? How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“You don’t,” Dorian says honestly. “But you can bring as many friends as you like. He can’t ride like this or I’d bring him here.” Which is half a lie - he doesn’t want to explain Bull to more people than the bare minimum required for treatment.

“I trust you can pay,” Stitches comments.

“Of course. Half in advance?”

The sum Stitches names is not wholly unreasonable, given the risks he’s taking and the trouble he might be saving Dorian and Bull.

“Done,” Dorian says, digging in his purse. He’s brought only barely enough with him - he and Bull will need to rustle up more coin at this rate. He refuses to imagine a future without Bull in it.

“Krem!” Stitches calls out. “We’ve got a little side venture,” he says to the man in armor who comes to his side. “Just a jaunt out of town. Krem, this is - ”

“Rian,” he says quickly. He’s still a wanted man, after all.

“Rian, this is Krem, he’ll be accompanying us,” Stitches says.

“Pleasure,” Dorian says with a strained smile. “Do you have horses? I’d much rather get there sooner than later.”

“We’ve got horses, Altus, keep your robes on,” Krem says, and Dorian barely covers his shock. He supposes his class is obvious when he opens his mouth, even without the jewelry or fancy mustache.

They don’t speak much on the ride to Dorian and Bull’s camp.

“Please don’t be alarmed,” Dorian warns as they get closer. “My friend is...unusual, but he won’t hurt you.”

Stitches raises an eyebrow. “I don’t do pets.”

“He’s - he’s not a pet,” Dorian says lamely. He reaches for another half-truth. “He’s...part-Qunari, is all. It unsettles people.”

“Part-Qunari?” Krem asks pointedly.

“I - you’ll see what I mean shortly,” Dorian says with a shrug. “But to make a long story very short, he’s been...altered. With blood magic. Not mine! I don’t partake. The changes are...significant.”

“What are you trying to say, Altus?” Krem asks.

“You’ll see,” Dorian says, shaking his head. Krem mutters under his breath mutinously.

But soon enough, they spot Bull by the rack of his horns. He stands on shaky legs and Stitches swears in a tongue Dorian doesn’t recognize. Krem stares fixedly as they approach, until he’s close enough to see the white of Bull’s eye.

“Bull?” Krem asks incredulously. He gives Dorian a suspicious glance. “Explain what you meant about blood magic.”

“Krem, his legs - ” Stitches babbles.

“What about ‘em?”

“Look at his legs, Krem!”

Krem looks. Then he half-falls off his horse in an attempt to grab Dorian. “What the fuck did you do to him?”

“Krem!” Bull snaps. “He didn’t do anything except save my life.”

“My father transformed him, I believe,” Dorian says. “Messere Stitches, if you’d please see to his wounds?”

“Right.” Stitches shook his head to clear it. “Let’s take a look at that knee first.” It’s not what he’s used to, but he can see what’s whole and what isn’t, and once he shaves away the fur, he can stitch it up just fine.

“Explain,” Krem demands of Dorian.

“Yes, he’s a minotaur now, no I don’t know how my father did it, yes I’m trying to reverse it, yes without blood magic, and no, I’m not telling you more than that. Not until you tell me how you know him, at least.”

“He saved my life and lost an eye in the process. We made plans to meet up again but he never showed.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Bull rumbles. “I came down with a bad case of kidnapping. Don’t remember how exactly, just waking up in a cell. Everything before the ritual is kinda fuzzy. Even you.”

Dorian pays more attention to Stitches than he does Bull, because he knows by now he can’t trust Bull to tell him the extent of his injuries. Stitches ignores his scrutiny and does an excellent job cleaning, stitching, and wrapping the wounds. “You need to stay off that leg for a few days,” he tells Bull ultimately. “And I mean off of it. No walking, running, jumping, no horseback riding either, though I’m not sure how you can manage that when you’re healthy. Don’t the hooves get in the way of the stirrup?”

“I can’t just lie around in bed all day,” Bull whines.

“You will if you want that knee to work right. And even that may not be enough; they mangled you pretty good.”

“Damn rogues,” Bull huffs. He looks up at Dorian. “Could you burn the bodies, Dorian? They’re starting to smell. I searched them for orders and valuables already, didn’t find much.”

Dorian nods, pleased to have something to focus on aside from Bull’s injury.

Krem helps him pile the bodies together.

“You’ll need wood, won’t you?” Krem asks. There are trees about, but not many.

Dorian tsks. “Wood alone wouldn’t burn hot enough. True pyres use charcoal. But I can do things more expediently with a well-placed inferno.” And sure enough, the bodies cook and blacken in the blaze before crumbling to dust.

“I can’t even feel the heat,” Krem murmurs.

“I have the blaze encircled in a barrier. Once it’s finished - ” and it had - “I just have to seal the top.” The fire became a tight ball of black smoke.

“How will you know when it’s burnt out if you can’t see the embers?” Krem asks.

“Experience, for one. Without fuel of wood, air, or magic, it will burn out quickly.” How quickly _is_ the important variable, but Dorian has always had a talent with fire.

He lets the barrier collapse and smoke billows into the air. “Not ideal,” he says with a frown, hoping no one is looking for easy prey. “But there’s little to be done about it now.”

“So...why did your father turn the Iron Bull into a minotaur?” Krem asks awkwardly. “Why not kill him, or make him a nug or something?”

“Oh, you’ll love this story,” Dorian says with false cheer. “Once there was a boy who would do anything to please his father. When he grew up, he found there were lines he wouldn’t cross after all. His father, suffering from a lack of basic human decency, imprisoned his son in a tower, surrounded by an enchanted maze, guarded by a fierce minotaur, bewitched to play the prison warden.

“All in all, not his best idea, seeing as we did manage to escape,” Dorian adds. “But who ever let probability or plot holes get in the way of a good fairytale?”

“Maker, you’re Dorian Pavus,” Krem breathes. “The price on your head is - eyepopping, to say the least.”

“Lovely. I suppose I’ll warn you that I will kill anyone who tries to take me in.”

“As you should; hired thugs and thieves, assassins, outlaws - no one you’d be safe with for five minutes. Are you really twenty three? You look like a kid.”

“I’m twenty four now, as it happens,” Dorian huffs. “You don’t exactly look older than me, though.”

“I’ve got a babyface,” Krem agrees sullenly. “Never could grow a decent mustache or it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Shaving mine pained me deeply.”

“Works, though. I’d never have guessed if not for the story. Everyone notices when an altus gets a bounty.”

Dorian shakes his head. “We’re nearly out of Tevinter, surely - ”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you got picked up in Nevarra. Especially with a minotaur in tow.” Krem tilts his head. “Have you considered pants? He looks like a normal enough Qunari from the - well, okay, he’s hairier than any Qunari I’ve ever seen in my life, but - ”

“Krem, if you can procure trousers to fit a minotaur, be my guest,” says Dorian, who has more than once considered pants for the Bull.

“Oh no, I’d have to make them myself.”

Which is how Krem talks himself into staying for a few days. Stitches wants to keep an eye on his “patient.” And Dorian, well.

Dorian does every little thing Bull asks. It’s bizarre to see an Altus waiting on a Qunari hand and...hoof...but that’s what Stitches and Krem witness.

That’s not all they witness, either. Bull starts to get snappish and Dorian draws near with a question in his eyes.

“If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind,” Dorian says lightly. “I’d appreciate some time alone with the Bull.”

Stitches and Krem shrug at each other, but take a break from their respective tasks to go hunting. They’re making their way back from a kill when they hear the scream.

Training takes over and they run toward, not away from, the probable danger.

They find Dorian, head thrown back in another cry of pleasure, riding the Bull’s frankly terrifying cock. No one knows what to say for a moment, and then Bull slaps Dorian’s buttocks to get him moving again.

“B-Bull,” Dorian protests weakly.

“It’s been nearly two days,” the Bull grumbles.

Dorian sighs and starts moving. He babbles to their unintentional voyeurs, trying to explain himself. “Father was thorough. Minotaurs of myth are rapacious - Bull gets irritable without regular sex, and will - disregard his victim’s consent or condition when he’s forced to wait long enough.”

He reddens. “When I decided to...oblige his needs, I realized how terrible they are.” Dorian gasps when Bull slams his hips up. “Oh! Once a day is usually enough. I’m hoping the compulsion breaks with the transformation, I don’t know enough about mind magics to muck about with that.”

Krem and Stitches head away from camp to give Dorian and Bull another twenty or thirty minutes of privacy. “He’s _big,_ ” is all Krem had to say.

“Dorian must have had a lot of practice to be riding him like that,” Stitches adds speculatively.

“How long do you think they’ve been fucking?”

“Since they met, I shouldn’t wonder. If what Dorian says about the urges is true.”

“It would fit with the mythology.”

“What kind of sick fuck locks his kid up with a sex-crazed minotaur for company?”

Krem shakes his head. “Magisters, man.”

+

Once they’ve been caught, Bull stops trying to be subtle and starts explicitly propositioning Dorian in front of the others.

“Do keep it in your loincloth for a change,” Dorian scolds without much heat. The Bull is not deterred.

“I thought minotaurs were indiscriminate,” Krem mentions once. The pair look at each other.

“I’d much rather have someone willing,” Bull winces.

“And he can make that choice as long as he gets what he needs regularly,” Dorian explains.

“Well, yeah, but - he doesn’t even flirt with us,” Krem says.

“Feeling neglected, are we?” Dorian asks tartly.

“That’s not what I - I was just curious. Don’t you get sore helping him all the time, anyway?”

“Magic, my dear,” Dorian answers with a shrug. “What are you really trying to ask?”

“You actually like each other, don’t you? I don’t mean you feel sorry for each other, or responsible for each other. You haven’t even thought about asking one of us to take over for an evening.”

Dorian makes a face. “Why would I do that? Do you have an interest in getting fucked bowlegged?”

“Not particularly. But you just proved my point: you haven’t thought about it.”

“Dorian’s mine,” Bull shrugs as if it’s that simple.

“Oh you’re not still on about that, are you?” Dorian sighs.

“About what?” Stitches asks.

“Apparently when he was twisting Bull’s mind, my father, in his infinite wisdom, decided to ‘promise’ me to him.”

“You think he didn’t mean it?” Bull asks, almost worried-sounding.

“I think whether he meant it or not hardly matters, as it’s my life he was swearing away,” Dorian sniffs. “Once the sexual compulsion is ended I’m sure you’ll have better things to do than follow me around.”

Bull frowns. “Pretty sure the Qun will kill me if I admit I was altered with blood magic,” he says. “I don’t particularly want to die. I’ve always been told that Tal-Vashoth go mad without the Qun, but I’m not sure what I am anymore. Might as well follow you, as long as you’ll have me.”

Dorian looks stunned. “I’ve never led anyone farther than a back-alley tryst,” he confesses blankly.

The phrasing makes Bull chuckle, but he’s half-serious when he says, “Well, we can stumble around Thedas aimlessly, then.”

“I don’t suppose you’d have room for one more,” Stitches says suddenly, surprising all of them. “I mean - if Bull gets hurt again…” he shrugs. “Trousers will keep him looking like a massive Qunari to most people, but you’ll need to trust someone if he gets wounded.”

“May as well make it two more, I guess,” Krem says, glancing up from his sewing. “The troupe we’re in right now takes jobs in Tevinter regularly, I’m wanted for defection.”

“Stitches? Why would you come with us?” Dorian asks.

“Just the two of you took out six people after being surprised from a dead sleep, with only one major injury,” Stitches says. “You’re better than a third of our troupe combined. Krem’s the best of any of them. I’m a middling-fair fighter but I know talent when I see it, and I know I’d rather be a midline medic than a frontline fatality.”

It’s good to have a few more friendly faces, but mostly Dorian is glad of the others' presence because it means they can set up a watch without being up half the night.

The watch is how they catch the thief before she can make off with all the supplies she can carry.

“Give her some food and let her go,” Dorian decides ultimately. “She looks much too skinny.”

“I’ll kill you, shem!”

“I recommend you don’t estrange the only person voting for your welfare,” Stitches says. “We don’t have the supplies to spare,” he challenges Dorian.

“She can have some of mine,” Bull offers with a shrug. “Food isn’t what I crave, anyway.”

Dorian flushes with color while Krem and Stitches snicker.

“What’s so fucking funny?” the elf demands. It only sets Stitches off harder, with Krem following at Stitches’ snorts.

Bull leans down to mutter in her ear. She looks at Dorian wide-eyed, then back at Bull. “No way.”

“Every day and twice when we make good time,” Bull adds proudly. Dorian goes even redder.

“Maker’s breath,” the elf says, shaking her head. “How do you even walk?” Dorian is certain now: her accent is Orlesian.

Dorian lets a spark run over his rings dramatically.

“Hot,” Bull says, grinning.

The elf gives them both an unimpressed look.

“You did ask,” Dorian says.

“What are a couple ‘Vints, a Qunari, and a Fereldan doing in Nevarra anyway?”

“I could ask the same of an Orlesian,” Dorian drawls.

“I’m going home. Want to guess why I was in Tevinter, shem?” she sneers.

He really doesn’t. “There’s a magical matter I need to research and Tevinter’s libraries aren’t an option. We’re going to the University of Orlais.”

“I could show you the way to go...for a price.”

“South is the way. I’ll worry about more detail than that after we take ship,” Dorian says dismissively.

“Inside Orlais, I mean. You’ll need a guide there, or you’ll get in all sorts of trouble, with a group like this.”

Dorian looks at Bull, who shrugs.

“You will be expected to do your part in maintaining the camp,” he starts. The elf whoops triumphantly. “We’ll feed you while we can, but we’ll need to stop for supplies and work on occasion. If you’re just looking for an escort, there are faster, probably safer options.”

“I’m in no hurry but I’m low on coin,” she says, shrugging. “What sort of work?” She looks to Dorian, who glances at Bull again. “Qunari got your tongue, ‘Vint?”

“It’ll be mercenary work. I’m the Iron Bull, by the way. What’s your name?”

“Skinner,” she says, flashing sharp teeth.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” Dorian mutters.

+

In the Free Marches, they pick up two more tag-a-longs: a demolitions-dwarf named Rocky and a lone Dalish elf who goes by the creative nickname “Dalish.” She is a mage, but seems bizarrely averse to admitting it.

Each of the three new companions becomes aware of Bull’s condition at different times, but most guess right away that he’s fucking Dorian. Skinner, because Bull told her as much and because of Dorian’s constant deferrals, Rocky because he can see the way Bull watches Dorian’s ass, and Dalish learns the way Stitches and Krem had, by walking in on them.

Dorian is far less copacetic about her interruption, possibly because he’s stuck on the Bull’s knot at the time, possibly because she cheers them on.

Either way, she narrowly escapes being frozen solid.

“Ataashi,” Bull croons with a hint of merriment in his eyes. Dorian doesn’t ask what it means, he just keeps rolling his hips the way Bull likes, too mortified to do anything else.

+

When they finally reach Orlais, Skinner is in her element. She also clearly loathes most Orlesians, particularly those who aren’t elves. But she has a special hatred for an elf named Briala.

Dorian learns quickly not to speak the name, lest he be treated to the same visceral threats as last time. Though Skinner doesn’t usually call him or the other men “shem” anymore, she still terrifies him with her seemingly infinite capacity for violence. Krem and Bull are easily roused to spar or fight, true, but they don’t revel in torture like Skinner does.

Not, he supposes, that he has room to talk. He does burn his enemies alive when he’s feeling generous: the ones who make him mad get the Horror spell first.

Bull seems to enjoy Dorian’s unique brand of battle lust. They always fuck longer after a good fight.

They’re near Val Royeaux when Dorian’s newest problem begins to appear, though he doesn’t know it yet. All he’s sure of is that his groin feels hot and itchy all the time, even in the middle of sex. Not his cock or balls, but the skin just behind them, his perineum. The itch is fairly mild, but it annoys him. He can’t do anything about it most of the time, which annoys him even more.

Bull volunteers to “kiss it better,” which usually turns into a blowjob or lengthy rimming session, not that Dorian is complaining about either of those things. And Bull’s broad, wet tongue does alleviate the heat somewhat, for a time.

Dorian just wishes he understood why it was itching, so he could fix it.

They do brisk business in Orlais, and Dalish’s presence means Dorian feels comfortable letting the others go off without him while he researches blood magic and its cures, few though they are. He experiments on Bull regularly, without much success. Dalish is barely literate and no help at all, regrettably.

It would be so much easier if he knew where his father had sourced the spell. But the book is almost certainly Tevene, and thus, out of his reach. It’s not _fair._

The itch gets worse the longer he waits. He even asks Stitches for a cream, but gives it back within days. _Nothing_ helps. Stitches takes a look, but there’s only a faint redness, no rash, no evidence of cause. He makes Bull lick him every night, as that’s the only thing that’s worked at all.

Bull is the first to notice a change, as a result. He hesitates one night, then presses his thumb against the tender area. Dorian moans, hips twitching in an agonized sort of pleasure.

“There’s a little hollow, like a dimple,” Bull says. “Doesn’t quite fit the tip of my thumb.” He pauses. “Dorian, are you alright?”

“Just...felt good, that’s all,” Dorian says dismissively. “Ignore me.”

“Not possible,” Bull tells him, smiling. He rubs his thumb into Dorian’s skin again. Dorian cries out. “Well, maybe it still itches because you aren’t ‘scratching’ it right,” he teases.

“You’re dreadful,” Dorian says, but there’s no heat to it.

Bull’s nightly stimulations grow more intense. He fucks Dorian’s thighs more often just so he can rut against the little dent behind Dorian’s sack. Dorian is helpless against that sort of attention. When Bull does penetrate him, his heavy bollocks slap against Dorian’s irritable skin in the most delicious way. Dorian can hardly get enough of it.

At first Dorian thinks he’s dreaming, when he finally gets brave enough to examine the hole with his own fingers. He can press in deep, deeper than Bull has been. It feels oddly slick, the skin smooth and wet - from sweat, surely.

His eyes fly open and he rips his fingers away. The strange orifice clings to him slightly. He hauls on a pair of trousers and stumbles into the hallway of the inn they’ve claimed as a base of operations. “Stitches!” he yells. “ _Stitches!_ ”

“I’m coming, Pavus, keep your shirt - oh.” Stitches notes that Dorian is not, in fact, wearing a shirt. “Where’s the fire?”

“I need you to look at the - the thing again. The itch.”

Stitches sighs. “I told you - ”

“Something changed,” Dorian says, wild-eyed. “I need you to look again.”

“Alright, alright. Get undressed and on the bed.”

Dorian is moved enough to kiss Stitches’ cheek before he obliges. He arranges himself on the blankets, legs spread.

Stitches considers him for a moment. “Hands and knees, this time. Maybe I’ll see something different.” Dorian moves to obey. “Tell me what changed?” he asks, settling behind Dorian on the bed.

“The - the dent, the place, it’s - it’s a _hole_ now, Stitches,” Dorian says, slightly hysterically.

“What?” Stitches takes a look for himself. “Andraste’s merciful bosom,” he swears, tracing the rim gently. Dorian shivers. “How in the Makers’ name…?” He presses a finger in and Dorian’s legs spread a little further apart. “Well, it certainly seems like - but that’s not possible.”

“Blood magic,” Dorian says grimly. “With enough blood, ‘possible’ doesn’t matter at all.”

“Well, is there any particular reason blood magic would be growing you a pussy?” Stitches draws back. “Because that’s what this looks like to me - a small girl’s pussy. And I mean _small_.”

“That’s all, though, right? There aren’t any - organs, are there?”

“You have strange priorities, friend.”

“My father wants an heir at any cost,” Dorian says. “If this is part of his scheme somehow - ”

“I don’t think the passage connects to anything,” Stitches says. “But I’ll need my tools to be certain.”

“Then hurry.”

Stitches hurries. He returns with a thick glass phallus and the mage light Dorian had enchanted for him months ago. He’s gentle with the phallus, but it’s unyielding and much too big for Dorian’s underdeveloped hole, even with the grease spell Dorian dutifully performs.

“It looks closed to me, about two inches deep maybe,” Stitches says finally. Dorian sighs in relief. The phallus slips out of him easier than it slipped in. “Seeing as this...change...was gradual, though, it may be worth checking again.”

“Yes,” Dorian says. “Once a month, maybe. It took at least a month to grow...this.”

“Does the Bull know?”

“He must. He certainly fondles it enough.”

“Well, don’t let him fuck you there. He’s bound to break something if he does.” Stitches is entirely too aware of Bull’s size.

Dorian blushes furiously. “I wasn’t going to - ” he protests.

“Mhm,” Stitches says, not believing him for a second.

Probably he is right to doubt. Bull has more or less free reign over Dorian’s body. He pouts at the instruction _not_ to fuck part of that body, but makes up for it with his fingers and tongue.

More than makes up for it. Drives Dorian mad with pleasure, in his methodical explorations and his teasing touches.

+

While Dorian researches and the Chargers take up every odd-job within reasonable distance of Val Royeaux, the mage finds them a few more likely recruits. Most are added to the fold uneventfully, but one stands out.

He saves Dorian from a handful of Templars after the 'Vint is surrounded. He doesn't seem to want payment, but he accepts the offer of a job – all without saying a word. Bull quickly nicknames him “Grim” and the man doesn't bother to correct him, so the name sticks.

+

Dorian’s research into blood magic is going frustratingly slowly. The best he’s managed to do is track down the name of the book he thinks he needs - which is, of course, banned in all countries but Tevinter. Even there its sale is strictly controlled. He writes his few remaining Tevene friends without much hope of a positive response. Most likely he’ll have to discover another way to lift Bull’s - and his own - curse.

Stitches checks every other week for “organs,” as they both call them awkwardly. None seem to appear, though the passage grows wider and deeper and begins to ache in an entirely different way. Bull’s fingers and tongue no longer satisfy, don’t go deep enough.

His cock, however, does marvelous work. There’s something uniquely satiating about taking Bull’s knot and all of his come. Dorian begins to wonder if he’s addicted to Bull’s seed, in fact, the sensation is that strong.

They don’t tell Stitches, but Dorian is sure the man knows. The looks he gives Dorian are too obvious for him not to.

He doesn’t say anything, at least, even ignores remnants of come on Dorian when he does his regular exams. Bull “claiming his bride,” as the Qunari puts it.

It shouldn’t turn him on, Stitches seeing him debauched like that - but it does. It certainly turns Bull on; they fuck before and after the exams as a general rule. Bull still can’t get his whole cock in, but Dorian doesn’t mind much. It feels too marvelous to complain about such a thing.

Besides. If his unfortunate luck holds, soon enough Bull _will_ be able to use his whole cock.

+

His luck holds.

The cunt deepens faster and faster, until Stitches will no longer confirm or deny the presence of any organs at the end of it.

Dorian’s itch has become abdominal cramping, however, which does tend to imply something else has been altered. And still the only alleviation of his pains comes from Bull’s cock.

Taking every inch there is different from taking it in his arse. Bull seems to go deeper, somehow - and the flared head makes its purpose known. It hooks on something inside him, drags him back with every stroke of Bull’s fucking. Even after healing, it leaves him feeling bowlegged, off-kilter.

When the cramping turns to nausea, he panics. He doesn’t tell Bull, not first. He has to confirm it, he has to ask Stitches - who, damn him, claims one symptom does not a pregnancy make.

Hearing the word makes it feel realer, somehow. Dorian begs for the herbs and Stitches obliges willingly. Who’d ever heard of a mercenary company that brought along a baby? Far more practical, to take care of it early.

Dorian redoubles his research efforts, to the point of not-quite-neglecting the Iron Bull’s needs. Both of them grow snappish and difficult. Somehow Krem draws the short straw and has to talk to his fellow ‘Vint.

“Is it too much?” he asks. “The work, the research, the Bull? We need you both functional, Altus.”

Dorian puts his book down reluctantly. “I’m beginning to think I’m wasting my time with the research, to be honest,” he confesses. “Over a year and I’ve made almost no progress at all.”

“Uh - about the Bull, actually. Do you need, um. Help? Because I’m sure we could find someone discreet - ”

“No,” Dorian says sharply. He flinches at the harshness of his own voice. “I’ll do better,” he adds weakly.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to carry it all yourself, Altus.”

“None of this would have happened if not for me,” Dorian sighs, an oft-repeated refrain.

“You aren’t the only solution, though.”

“Bull and I…” Dorian pauses. “We...fit. Don’t tell the oaf, but he’s really grown on me. I don’t _want_ anyone else to ‘help’ with him. Maybe that’s selfish, but I’ve never been known for my charitableness.”

+

After almost a year together, the Bull’s Chargers had cultivated a reputation for honesty, fair dealing, and greater than usual care for preventing collateral damage.

And that, according to the letter, was exactly why they were wanted for this job. Kirkwall Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen was running out of all resources but gold. She no longer had the manpower to protect the city, so rather than try to woo and train new guards, she was employing a stopgap measure, and a risky one: mercenaries.

_“The highest praise most mercenary companies can hope for is that they did their job well and didn’t gripe about the pay,” she'd written the Bull. “But I’ve heard positively glowing reports of your work, and that’s what Kirkwall needs: good men and women who can’t be bought because they’ve already sworn themselves to another contract.”_

She even got special dispensation for their apostate-mages to roam freely in the aptly named City of Chains.

“It’s so perfect a job I almost think it’s a trap,” Dorian says. But Aveline Vallen had a reputation, too - a better one than theirs, much better than most guard-captains could even imagine.

They take the job. It comes with room and board, so long as they don’t mind bunking with the guards. Most of them don’t, but Bull and Dorian rent a small house on the edge of Hightown. The Chargers know why, but still tease them as though they’ve declared intent to marry.

“Evening, gorgeous,” Bull greets Dorian at the door. Bull has been encouraging the Chargers entirely too much, in Dorian’s opinion.

“What have you done?” he asks suspiciously.

“Nothing,” protests the Bull, wide-eyed. “...yet. But rumor has it there’s a dragon in the Bone Pit.”

“What a ghastly name. Let me guess: you want to kill the dragon.”

“It’ll be fun! Aveline says we can have the day after next for dragon-hunting.”

“Oh Maker, you got _permission_.”

“Of course,” Bull says, beaming. “We can’t just run off in the middle of a job without notice.” His smile takes a different tone. “C’mere, prettyboy. I haven’t had your sweet cunt all day, we’d better fix that.”

Dorian follows him to bed. He can’t quite restrain the urge to use a little more magic, this time. Until now, he has mostly restricted any bedroom casting to heat or cold held in his hands.

Tonight, with dragons on the brain, he breathes a little smoke, to test the waters.

Bull proves extraordinarily amorous after his display, and keeps calling Dorian “ataashi.” A success, all in all.

The day of the dragon battle dawns bright and cold, and Dorian already dislikes the beast. “Are we really going to hike to some Maker-forsaken place called the Bone Pit just because a bunch of Fereldan rubes saw an overlarge lizard?” he drawls, to the Iron Bull’s chuckles.

“Not quite. We’re going because some of the miners are missing, probably dead, and the stakeholder wants whatever caused that taken care of, lest he be forced to offer higher pay to incentivize the miners to return. I’m excited because some of them said ‘dragon.’”

Dorian groans.

“C’mon, Ataashi, it’ll be fun.”

It was, almost. The battle goes well, no one is injured beyond Stitches’ ability to mend, and there are plenty of potions materials to be found in the area. They only face dragonlings, though, not dragons - much to Bull’s disappointment. Someone else had gotten to the dragon first: its corpse is rotting in the quarry, perhaps a day old.

“I knew we shoulda come yesterday,” Bull whines, kicking a loose skull. Dragon food, doubtless.

“There, there,” Dorian soothes distractedly. He’s busy trying to harvest blood from a day-old corpse, he doesn’t have the energy to be comforting right now.

“Why are you bleeding the body, anyway?” Rocky asks.

“Do you have any idea how useful dragon’s blood is? No? Then leave me alone,” Dorian sniffs.

“Does it blow things up?” Rocky asks keenly.

“Of course not; in its liquid state it’s inert.” Dorian rolls his eyes. “You are utterly predictable.” In his moment of distraction, another dragonling strikes. It had been hiding under its mother’s corpse.

It gets the jump on Dorian, who Mindblasts it back only after it’s already shredded his arm, likely broken it as well. Krem kills the beast easily, and Stitches clucks over the wound.

“You’ll want a proper healer for this, if you can find one in the City of Chains.”

Dalish takes Dorian on their fastest horse back to Aveline, who must at least know a medic to take care of her guards. She sets her mouth in a hard line and tells them to wait. One of her men cleans the gashes while they do so. Aveline returns with two strangers - a blond and a brunet, both fairly obvious mages.

Dorian and Dalish exchange a glance. They know Aveline’s views on mages are flexible, but bringing these two into the Viscount’s castle had to be bad for her authority.

Then she introduces them, and a lot of things made a lot more sense.

Hawke keeps Dorian distracted while Anders works on his ruined arm, reattaching skin and mending torn muscles and cracked bone. He asks the usual questions about what a Tevinter was doing in Kirkwall, with a lot more potentially at stake. Dorian answers truthfully, for once, worried the healer might stop. He was still oblique about some things, of course.

“I argued with my family one too many times and they decided they’d prefer a puppet to a son. Blood magic,” he didn’t actually spit, but he did sneer impressively. “I’ve been on the run ever since. I don’t know if they’re pursuing, but they’ve never hesitated to kidnap or imprison me when it suits them.”

“Is it still kidnapping if you’re of age when it happens?” Hawke asks. Dorian chuckles dutifully, as the joke isn’t funny.

“I suppose not. ‘Abduct,’ then.” Though some incidents from his youth might warrant the other description.

“So you ran away and joined the...Chargers, was it?”

“More or less,” Dorian says tiredly. Enduring a healing taxes the body.

Anders, who has remained mostly silent, finally speaks: “Is blood magic really so prevalent in Tevinter?”

“Ten years ago, when I was young and naive, I might have said no,” Dorian sighs. “The constant vying for power leads quite a few mages into the limits of their abilities, and so they turn to demons. In the military, it’s almost acceptable, it’s so common. It’s so easy to use death to fuel spells.” What Dorian does with the spirits of the dead is not as far removed as he would like.

“However, blood magic is still technically illegal. And it’s considered gauche to do it in public or at a residence not your own.”

“It’s impolite to leave your blood lying about?” Hawke teases.

Dorian stills. “‘Your’ blood? Oh, my dear man. A magister never uses his _own_ blood for spells, or only does so in the direst of circumstances. Why, if an enemy got a hold of that, think what they could do! No. They bleed and kill their slaves, of course. Father killed my wetnurse, among other slaves I’d known since childhood. As far as I know, that was the first time he’d ever used blood magic. Certainly our household didn’t run through slaves as quickly as most. Father liked to preach about the dangers, the responsibility - the duty we had to the well-being of our slaves. I guess in the end none of that mattered when he needed to control me.”

“If it’s not too terribly impertinent to ask,” Hawke begins.

“What was he trying to do?” Dorian guesses the question, and Hawke nods. “Alter my mind, permanently, or that’s what I believe. I wouldn’t marry the girl he picked, you see,” he says wryly. “I’m told it’s not so taboo in the south, to take partners of one’s own sex.”

“He - because you didn’t want women?” Anders asks, incensed. “Obviously he didn’t succeed, or you wouldn’t be here...right?”

“I _think_ that’s what he was trying to do. Certainly that’s what he implied. But recent events have brought my attention to another possibility...I want you to understand, I’m telling you this because you’re a healer and may be able to help.”

“...Alright?”

“There’s also a possibility…” Dorian looks at Hawke. “Some privacy, if you don’t mind.”

“Hawke, go talk to Aveline,” Anders says dismissively.

Hawke rolls his eyes but obeys.

“There’s also the possibility he meant to alter my body instead,” Dorian says once Hawke is out of earshot. “Specifically, to render me capable of bearing children.” Dorian releases a slow breath. He’s never put it like that before.

“Andraste’s flaming knickerweasels,” Anders says faintly. “You can use blood magic to do that?”

“It’s the only explanation I have for what’s happened to my body,” Dorian says grimly.

“Flaming knickerweasels,” Anders repeats.

Dorian goes quiet. He hadn’t truly meant to go into such intimate detail, but Anders has a friendly face that’s easy to talk to.

“I’m not sure if I can help, but I can certainly try,” Anders says ultimately. “You say your body’s changed; how?”

“It started as an itch. I thought at first it was some sort of crotch rot but there were no other symptoms. Then Bull - my, um, partner - ” he explains clumsily, “ - noticed an...indentation. A month later and it was unmistakably a hole, with...lips.” Dorian shudders.

“That’s - you mean like a woman’s…?”

“I’ve been told that’s what it looks like, yes,” Dorian says tersely.

Anders only blinks. “Well, if I’m going to help you, I’ll need to take a look for myself.”

Dorian reddens. “There’s actually a matter rather more pressing that I’d appreciate if you could fix. Someone else, who was harmed far worse by my father’s blood magic.”

“Oh?”

“It’s easier if I just show you,” Dorian says. “Are you finished with my arm? Bull and the others should be back by now.”

Anders nods, packing up his supplies in a satchel.

Dorian collects Bull and they lead Anders back to their house. “It’s better if we have privacy for this. _Total_ privacy,” Dorian explains.

Anders tries to contain his curiosity. What could warrant so much secrecy, when Dorian was willing to speak openly of his own bizarre modifications?

Bull obligingly drops his trousers when they close the door behind them.

“Maker’s breath! Warn a ma...n…” Anders trails off, staring at Bull’s whiplike tail. “That’s - your father turned a man into a _minotaur_? Why?”

“My best guess is that it was some kind of punishment. For me, I mean. He also imbued the Iron Bull with a voracious appetite for sex. We...came to an agreement, eventually, but he was an effective guard - and deterrent to escape - for some time. My father erred in leaving most of Bull’s mind intact. I was able to break some of the enchantments on my prison, and one or two of the ones keeping Bull in place. But I’m no healer and am of little use with mind magics. I know there are more spells, more compulsions on him.”

“I’m not exactly a specialist in blood magic,” Anders begins. “But I’ll do what I can.”

He has some partial success in transforming Bull’s hooves to feet once more, but soon the toes revert, and the ankle realigns itself - painfully.

Anders winces in sympathy as Bull howls. “It seems like the magic is designed to fight a countercurse. You may need to see a blood mage about that.” He looks upset by the very prospect. “Dorian, if I could take a look at you before I give up entirely, I’d like to at least be able to say I tried.”

“Is it going to hurt?” Dorian asks, nibbling his lip.

“No spells without your fully informed consent, I swear.”

Dorian strips out of his leathers reluctantly. He squirms under their combined scrutiny.

“If you could give us some privacy, sirrah,” Anders asks the Bull.

“N-no, let him stay. Nothing he hasn’t seen already, anyway. The bedroom is just over here,” he says, stalling. Anders follows him wordlessly.

“Get in a comfortable position,” Anders says, gesturing to the bed. Dorian kicks off his smalls and arranges himself on the quilts nervously. Bull takes his hand without being asked.

Anders takes off his robe and his boots rather than get sewerfilth on their pristine bed. His tools, at least, are clean: a slim glass rod and a metal - something. Dorian can guess its purpose: to hold him open. The metal is lukewarm, thank the maker, and it slips into his folds easily.

Then the jaws part and he takes a sharp breath, feeling unpleasantly vulnerable. Stitches’ exams were different, less scary and impersonal - but he doesn’t know Anders at all, so perhaps that’s not surprising.

The little wand of glass presses on things inside him, and he whines and squirms.

“Easy, ataashi,” Bull says. Dorian stills with a sigh.

“I’m going to touch your belly now,” Anders explains. He gropes around, feeling for each of Dorian’s organs. “As you’re probably aware, you do appear to have a uterus and ovaries in addition to a vaginal cavity. You said they developed over a period of time?”

“Several months.”

“Everything looks perfectly natural and normal except for the cock and balls right next to it,” Anders states. He removes the glass tool. “Even that does happen on occasion - someone who’s both sexes, I mean. But I’m babbling.” His thumb traces the lips of Dorian’s cunt. “It’s - there’s the faintest echo of power, but it doesn’t feel like blood magic, or not quite. The Iron Bull, if I could have another look at you, I’d appreciate it. I have a theory.” He stands up. “Dorian, you can get dressed.”

Dorian gets fresh clothes rather than put back on his bloodied ones.

“What d’you need to look at?” Bull asks.

“Your cock - well, your bollocks actually,” Anders admits, a bit red-faced. Bull simply opens his trousers again and lifts his heavy cock out of the way.

Anders asks for (and receives) permission to cast “a modification on a simple fertility spell.” The greenish haze is familiar enough, but the way it passes _through_ Bull is kind of weird.

“Well,” Anders says slowly. “How long have you two been intimate?” He can’t stop staring at Bull’s...bullness, so the Iron Bull puts himself away when Anders seems to be finished.

“Over a year,” Dorian answers. “Why?”

“I believe your father cursed Bull with a kind of hyperfertility. His body is trying to impregnate you, and either the blood magic or your own ambient magic is responding to that drive. It’s made a lot of changes in a relatively short span of time, all for the express purpose of childbearing.” Anders pauses. “I’m not sure you can avoid pregnancy if you continue to be intimate. Even if you don’t have vaginal sex, I believe the Bull will be able to get you with child eventually.”

“Is there any _good_ news?” Dorian asks.

“...I know a blood mage who may be able to help?” Anders offers weakly.

“Blood magic is what got us into this mess!” Dorian exclaims, scowling.

“And it may well be your only way out of it,” Anders says. “Healing requires a wound. The changes are unnatural, but your body doesn’t regard them that way.”

“What if we stopped having sex? Would Dorian’s body return to normal?” Bull asks.

“Possibly. I don’t think any other man would be able to get him pregnant at this point. But _your_ body would likely have the same effect on anyone else you were with long term. With women, it might only take one try, regardless of birth control methods. And it’s my understanding that part of your curse includes a need for physical intimacy.”

“You can call it fucking, healer, I don’t mind,” Bull says. “Because ‘physical intimacy’ doesn’t quite cover it.”

“My point is that stopping the sex only solves one problem, and ‘solves’ is probably too strong a word. It may be that the changes are cumulative and permanent, rather than just cumulative.” Anders sighs. “I recommend you at least talk to Merrill - my...friend. She’s not exactly the typical blood mage.”

“Very well,” Dorian says reluctantly. “We’ll go see the atypical blood mage.”

Anders winces. “It...might be better for her to come here. Kirkwall’s alienage isn’t particularly friendly to ‘Vints.”

“Neither is the rest of Kirkwall,” Dorian mutters, but he doesn’t try to change Anders’ mind.

+

Merrill turns out to be a bright, cheerful young woman with Dalish tattoos. She, mercifully, does not personally desire to examine either of their unusual bodies, preferring to let spirits do her work.

And they _are_ spirits, not demons, which intrigues Dorian. She also uses only her own blood to cast, which endears her to neither of them but does relax Bull a little.

She babbles almost unceasingly during her visit. Even Dorian is impressed. But more importantly, she gives them a lead, a woman known for her ability to transform herself and others into animals, including a dragon.

The problem is, she lives in the Korcari Wilds, the far south of Ferelden, and she’s not exactly known for her generosity of spirit.

“But she helped the Warden,” Merrill adds cheerfully. “And Hawke and his family!”

“We’re on contract with Aveline until wintersend,” Bull says. “We’ll have to wait.”

“We’ve waited this long,” Dorian sighs. “A few more months shouldn’t matter.”

Bull raises an eyebrow. “It’ll matter if you get pregnant.”

“We’ll figure that out if we get there,” Dorian says, a little wild-eyed. Bull drops the subject. “What do we owe you, my dear?” he asks Merrill.

She looks at him oddly. “Owe?”

“You’ve given us invaluable information,” Dorian says. “Surely you want some kind of remuneration?”

“Oh. That’s not how it works with Dalish magic,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.

Dorian blinks slowly, not comprehending.

“I suppose you could donate something to the alienage. Oh, or Anders’ clinic always needs...pretty much everything. He doesn’t like me very much, but he does help whoever needs him, and that’s very noble.”

Dorian rubbed his temple. “Alright. We’ll...donate something. Are you sure - ”

“Sometimes for great, difficult magics, books and food might be given. But this wasn’t exactly difficult. All I did was tell you about Asha-Bellanar.”

“I do have a book that I think you’d like, though,” Dorian says, latching onto the idea. “And it’s not been of much use to me, certainly not what I hoped.”

“I love new books!” Merrill beamed. “I even like Varric’s, though Aveline always says they’re drivel.”

“Varric? Varric Tethras?” Bull asks interestedly.

“Yes, that’s his name. He calls me ‘Daisy,’ though I’m not sure why. He’s very nice.”

“Aveline never mentioned she knew Tethras,” Bull mutters, frowning a little.

“Oh, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t like to brag.” Merrill shrugs. “Hawke does it all the time, I’m not sure why Aveline dislikes it so much.”

+

The Iron Bull has a bit of bone to pick, and not the kind Dorian is interested in.

Hawke’s group had scoped him on the dragon; that was bad enough. But while Aveline has them playing guardsmen, she has an entire network under her nose, at her _fingers_ , which she’d failed to mention to Bull.

“I don’t,” she protests. “Varric’s informants are his own. Most of them wouldn’t spit on a guard if he was on fire. He’s shared some things with me, or with Hawke, but it’s not even a fraction of the information that passes through his hands, I’m sure.”

“And he never leverages his network for you? For Hawke?”

“Not for me. For Hawke, maybe. And if he happens to know just what I need at just the right time, I don’t question it. He’s too well established to be intimidated into anything and anyway I prefer my friendships to remain friendly.”

“I’m not talking about intimidation, I’m talking about an open line of communication.”

“His people will dry up if he’s thought to be snitching. I’ve had this argument with him already, trust me, but if you want to have it again, you can be my guest. Just leave my name out of it,” Aveline says wearily.

Bull _does_ want to have it again, because sometimes a seven-foot Qunari gets a better answer.

He finds Varric easily enough; the dwarf spends most of his time in the tavern he part-owns.

“Hello there, Tiny,” Varric says jocularly. “What can I do you for?”

“That depends,” Bull says, sizing Varric up.

“On what?”

“How civically engaged you feel,” Bull answers.

“You’re the Qunari Aveline has working for her, aren’t you?” Varric says sharply.

“Guilty.” Bull shrugs.

“So what are you really here for, Tiny?”

“The guard needs men and women on the streets, and I bet you know a few out of luck ex-soldiers...or where I can find some.”

“Recruiting? Through me? Aveline must really be scraping the barrel.”

“I want out of this shithole and I’ll feel better about it if I’m not leaving it worse off than I found it. Aveline’s got nothing to do with this, except that she stands to benefit. The city has plenty of money but the guards they have are forced to patrol Hightown more often for cutpurses than they can check Lowtown for murders, because Hightown is where the money comes from. If you want Lowtown safe, you’ve got to put _something_ in. Get some men and women in your debt for the introduction. You’ll have eyes even more places, Lowtown gets guards where it’s settled for mercs, and Aveline doesn’t have to worry about leaving the lower city to anarchy.”

It isn’t why Bull has really come, but it would do for an introduction.

“What if I like Lowtown lawless?”

“Then why pay people to watch your friends’ houses? Paranoia? Spying on them?”

Varric cracks his knuckles, but doesn’t reach for his crossbow. Not that Bull is fool enough to think that’s his only weapon. “What makes you think I’ve got eyes on them?”

“Merrill’s house. Too many non-elves hanging around the alienage, and then I saw a little skirmish. The winners retreated into the shadows around Merrill’s house. _Those_ were all elves.”

“How do you know that’s not the elves protecting their own?”

“Because one of them had a runny mouth. Said, ‘Varric asks a lot sometimes.’ No other context. You’re already paying to keep Lowtown safer for a few people; let Aveline’s men take some of the burden off.”

“It’s not Lowtown she should be worried about. A guard won’t make it out of Darktown alive unless he’s there with a squad or he’s with Anders. They’re brutal, desperate people.”

“One test at a time, Tethras. Darktown isn’t my concern just yet.” He isn’t sure if _anyone_ has the resources to handle Darktown.

+

Varric’s people trickle in slowly: refugee-soldiers from Ferelden, ex-mercenaries looking for an honest living, elves hoping for a lucky break: not quite twenty men and women, all told. The Iron Bull trains them personally.

Once Aveline is better-staffed, with Wintersend almost gone, the Chargers say their goodbyes and leave before the Templars figure out their mages are fair game again.

They move through Ferelden at a snail’s pace, bogged down in the snow and mud, but eventually they reach the Korcari Wilds. It’s a terrible, Blighted place, but at least the Darkspawn are gone.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” an old woman says, appearing out of the gloom. She ignores their hastily raised weapons. “Why don’t you come to my workshop?”

“Are you Asha-Bellanar?” Dalish asks.

“Some call me that. To others, I am the Witch of the Wilds. You can call me Flemeth, if you’d rather.”

Dorian shrugs. “If you can help I’ll call you Urthemiel,” he says flippantly.

“We shall see,” Flemeth says cryptically.

The Chargers follow her deeper into the woods.

“Just the afflicted parties past this point,” Flemeth says suddenly, and everyone stops.

Dorian wets his lips and looks at Bull, who signals the Chargers to back off and stay put.

“Now then...tell me the nature of your curse,” Flemeth says.

“I think my father used blood magic to turn Bull into a hyperfertile minotaur so he could impregnate me,” Dorian says in a rush. It gets a little easier to say every time he has to explain, but that doesn’t make it an experience he enjoys.

Flemeth sighs. “You left it to fester for a long time,” she says, eyeing Dorian.

“Can you help us or not?” Dorian asks sharply.

“I’ll need blood from both of you. And blood from a normal Qunari and a normal human man.”

“Closest Qunari is probably Tal-Vashoth and as leery of blood magic as I am,” Bull remarks.

“Then you’d better be very persuasive, or very violent. The blood need not be fresh.”

“You can actually fix us?” Dorian asks, his eyes filled with longing.

“Say rather that I am restoring you to your natural state,” Flemeth says. “And I can do nothing without the blood.”

“Do you recognize the spell, or is this merely a catchall solution?” Dorian presses.

Flemeth frowns. “I believe it is a variation on an ancient curse called Mythal’s Vengeance. It was used to turn cheating lovers into lustful beasts, often satyrs or minotaurs. Pregnancy was never a factor, however. Your father must have mixed in another working, to make your man capable of impregnating you.”

“He’s not my ‘man,’” Dorian protests. Flemeth raises an eyebrow. “We’re not - ”

“Don’t try my patience over trivialities,” Flemeth tells him primly. “You are bound, by fate if not by choice.”

“Is there a charm or talisman or herb Dorian can use, to avoid becoming pregnant?” the Iron Bull asks. “Since it could take us a while to find another Qunari.”

Flemeth cocks her head. “Such things exist. I could fashion you a charm, for a price. But the curse might overwhelm my spell, if tested too often.”

“How often is that?” Dorian drawls.

“I know not the nature of your curse. It could take months or years...or only a handful of weeks.”

Dorian scowls. “Is there no other way?”

“If I had your father’s exact spell...but you could unwind the curse nearly as easily with that information. The magic binds you together, so killing one of you might work or it might make the changes irreversible,” she adds blithely.

Bull wordlessly wraps an arm around Dorian.

“I’m afraid the blood is the only solution I can think of. Mythal’s Vengeance is old, dark magic, and the - what did you call it? ‘Hyperfertility’ adds quite an unknown quantity to the situation.”

“And there’s no way to heal - restore - Dorian now and me later?” Bull asks.

“It would only delay things a while,” Dorian says with a shrug. “Your body’s effect on me wouldn’t stop.”

“Still, it would buy us a couple months. Plus, if you teach Dorian the spell he can ‘restore’ us both later.”

Dorian bites his lip. “Participating in blood magic is one thing. I’m not sure I have the nerve to perform it.”

“Dorian, the nearest Qunari could be back in the Marches for all I know. It might be months, years before we cross paths with one. This spell could buy us time we don’t have the luxury of turning down.”

The ‘Vint looks at Flemeth. “Will that work? Especially if we have to repeat it?”

“The stress on your body from transforming back and forth would be considerable,” she cautions. “And it may have less and less impact as time goes on.”

Not for the first time, Dorian curses his father’s thorough revenge. “Would having a child break the spell?” he asks wearily, finally ready to entertain the option.

Flemeth shrugs. “It’s possible. But it might only fix your problem, not his,” she nods to Bull. “And there’s no guarantee it will fix your problem, either.”

“Then let’s avoid that if we can. We’ll need to ask a Charger to donate - how much blood, exactly?”

“A small vial only. It doesn’t fuel the spell so much as target it.”

“Lovely,” Dorian sighs.

Grim volunteers at once when Dorian explains the nature of the spell, even though he’s told the reality of the situation is that Dorian may have to perform it several times. He simply extends an arm patiently and Dorian thinks once more that Grim is a good man, and a great friend.

The spell doesn’t take long, but its effect is agonizing. Dorian can feel his organs rearranging, and it hurts like nothing he’s ever experienced before. Bull holds him until he stops crying. Grim pets his hair gently. Their warmth soothes him, a little, and the pain slowly dissipates.

“You okay, ataashi?” Bull asks when Dorian finally stands on his own feet again.

“You should rest,” Flemeth says. “Your Chargers are safe in my lands, for now.”

Dorian lets Bull help him into the bed in Flemeth’s cottage, with her permission. He sleeps for the remainder of the day and well into the morning, waking not long before lunch is served.

Flemeth doesn’t kick them out, exactly, but everyone feels better when they leave the Wilds. The Witch had a strange way of looking at them, like they were flies she hadn’t bothered to squash yet.

+

Mercifully, Dorian’s dubious good fortune holds. His body is as slow to change the second time as it was the first; it’s months before he even feels the telltale itch at his perineum. In those months, the Bull’s Chargers hear tales of a Tal-Vashoth mercenary company called the Valo Kas.

It’s a simple enough thing to request a meeting with their leader, a woman named Shokrakar, and wait in Val Royeaux for a reply.

She agrees to see them in less than a month, even acquiescing to meeting within Val Royeaux. Dorian spends the next several weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Shokrakar turns out to be a mage, and a skilled one at that. She seems to know just by looking that Bull is not truly a Qunari anymore.

“What need do mercenaries have for other mercenaries?” she asks, eyeing Bull warily. “Are you Hissrad, come to kill my men for daring to exist outside of the Qun?”

“Once, that was my role. But the Qun would have slain me for something outside of my power. I am Tal-Vashoth now.”

She grunts in mild shock. “And what does your crew want with mine?”

“My father performed a blood ritual to transform Bull into a minotaur. I’d like to change him back, but I need a very small amount of blood from an unafflicted Qunari. It focuses the transformation.”

Shokrakar’s lips thin. “And what if I say no?”

“Then we would like to ask your crew for a volunteer. We can pay for it. But I must take it from a Qunari or Tal-Vashoth.”

“A minotaur? Aren’t they mindless puppets of lust?” she asks.

“I keep the Bull sated,” Dorian says tersely.

She toys with the ropes securing her armor. “How small is a ‘small amount’?”

“A few ounces, not more than five.”

“And you will use or destroy all the blood?”

“With you as witness to it, if you like,” Dorian says. The end was in sight.

Shokrakar straightens. “Very well. You may ask my men to sell you their blood. But I will not bleed for you, little human saarebas.”

Her “men” are almost twoscore in number - roughly the same size as the Chargers are these days, but the Valo Kas look like the bigger group because individually, they are all at least Grim’s height and built thickly, covered in muscle (even the women). Dorian gaped to see so much gray flesh on display. Like Bull, none of them seem to wear shirts. Shokrakar is the only woman with her breasts covered.

Bull chuckles a little at Dorian’s open admiration of the male forms. He nips the human’s ear and reminds him, “You’re mine.”

Dorian keeps his mouth shut after that, but his eyes still rove wildly.

Shokrakar introduced them in Qunlat, and Bull asks if anyone will sell them enough blood to fill a vial. There is silence for a long moment, and then a few hands raise. Three - no, four - which is more than Dorian had expected, to be honest.

The Iron Bull haggles until only one hand remains. A smaller Tal-Vashoth with goatlike horns accepts their price for the blood. Bull claps him on the shoulder and Dorian leads them both back to Shokrakar.

“What’s your name, buddy?” Bull asks.

The Tal-Vashoth eyes him. “Adaar. What do you need my blood for?”

“A restorative spell,” Dorian answers quickly.

“What kind?”

“Bull,” Dorian says with a sigh.

“Just this once, ataashi.”

“Hopefully it will cease to be an issue soon,” Dorian says, consolingly.

The Bull drops trou. Adaar gapes.

“What - how - what?” he asks incoherently.

“My father decided to teach me some sort of lesson,” Dorian says, lips pursed. “He used old, complex blood magic to do it. Righting it also requires blood, but only a little.”

“This was done to teach _you_ a lesson? Were you lovers?”

“We didn’t meet until after the spell. My father might have hoped that repeated rapes by a frothing monster would make me less inclined to men, but the joke’s on him,” Dorian sniffs. “I tamed the minotaur.”

“Not gonna be a minotaur for much longer,” Bull says, shifting his weight between his hooves. “You still gonna want me?” he asks.

Dorian smiles and cups Bull’s cheek, though he has to stretch his arm up to do it. “I may have met the minotaur first, but I fell in love with the man. Who you are won’t change.”

Bull relaxes and Dorian performs the spell. It’s Bull’s turn to scream and writhe in agony as his lower half twists and contorts. His knees revert. Then his feet grow out. The thick fur disappears, and the monstrously large cock becomes merely large. Dorian is relieved by that, at least. Maybe riding horses would be somewhat less tiresome from now on.

Assuming Bull still wanted him around. What if he was just a reminder of more than a year of suffering?

Bull pants heavily, then reaches for his trousers. He stays on the ground as he pulls them on, rather than risking falling over.

“Most fascinating,” Shokrakar says. “The rest of the blood, please.”

Dorian hands over the mostly empty vial.

Without his bull parts, the Iron Bull is a bit shorter and a little lighter. Just enough that Dorian can help him walk out of the Tal-Vashoth encampment and into the waiting arms of Krem and Stitches, who ease him to the inn the Chargers are occupying.

Dorian follows scarcely a pace behind, ready to catch the Bull with magic should he fall. He doesn’t even question his desire to be at Bull’s side. After everything they’ve been through together...where else would he go? Bull was his home.


End file.
